September – October 2004
Cracker Barrel
By the time my wrist finally healed, I was eager to get back on a schedule and earn steady pay again. Outback had been my spot before, so I called, left messages, waited, and called some more. Nothing. No return calls, no explanation. After a while, silence feels like an answer.
That’s when my parents came home one evening, practically glowing, with a job application from Cracker Barrel. They handed it to me like it was a winning lottery ticket. When I finally told them I’d been hired, their excitement was so over the top you’d have thought their favorite team had just won the championship. They were that thrilled.
So I began waiting tables part-time at their beloved restaurant. The stress of juggling too many tables at once wasn’t nearly as bad as what I’d dealt with before. And the moments that stayed with me were when my parents came in to eat. I’d serve them biscuits and coffee while they beamed at me from across the table. It was fun in a way that almost erased the grind of the job.
WVU
That semester, I only had two classes for my major. Growth of the American Nation stands out most in my memory—not for the coursework, but because of the offensive lineman who could barely fit through the classroom door. He was enormous, broad-shouldered, built like a machine. His face was boyish, but you knew better than to mistake him for soft. No one sat behind him because there was no chance of seeing past him. Watching him take his seat was almost a performance in itself.
The other class was Intro to Comparative Politics. We studied different governments and waded through the philosophers who had inspired them—Hobbes, Kant, Rousseau, Machiavelli. Heavy thinkers, dense readings. Beyond those, I filled out my schedule with Geography and Human Communication, putting me at thirteen credits. That was plenty for someone working part-time and trying to bring a rundown farmhouse back to life. Still, I thought I could stretch myself with a so-called “Mickey Mouse class.” An easy A. Something light to round out the load. I chose Music Appreciation.
That turned out to be a mistake.
Music Appreciation was a cattle class: three hundred students in an auditorium, crammed in row by row. Attendance was tracked by teaching assistants, homework graded by them as well. The professor—who usually only taught graduate students—made it very clear he thought we undergrads were beneath him. He looked at us with disdain, like we were primitives in need of culture. So he turned the course into a boot camp, teaching us less about music and more about writing graduate-level papers.
I considered dropping, but pride kept me in it. I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. I wanted him to know that Row E, Seat 37 could write a paper just fine.
But the worst part was the mandatory attendance at faculty recitals. These weren’t concerts of Bach or Beethoven. They were modernist or postmodernist compositions—pieces the professors themselves had written. One night, I sat through a forty-five-minute recital where a man screeched on an out-of-tune violin while another pounded a single drum without rhythm or variation. That was it. I stared at the stage, stunned, half-wondering if the whole thing was a joke. But it wasn’t. That was the assignment: sit, listen, endure.
South Ridge Church
Around this same time, I started scanning the bulletin boards across campus for a college ministry to join. Nearly all of them had water-themed names: The Well, H2O, Living Water. It amused me, but none felt like the right fit. Then I came across one tied to a church in Morgantown. On their website, buried at the bottom, was a small advertisement for a church plant in Fairmont. They’d even listed a phone number.
I dialed, and Pastor Seth answered. He explained the church hadn’t launched yet but invited me to visit. That Sunday, I drove to the Fairmont Marriott, where the plant team was gathering in one of the reception rooms. There were only about fifteen people, but the service felt warm, familiar—like home. It reminded me of the church I had attended in Spartanburg. The next day, I met Pastor Seth for lunch and told him I wanted to keep attending.
That week, I walked around with an extra skip in my step. My parents noticed the change. I told them how much I enjoyed the service and invited them to come with me. At the time, they were attending a Church of Christ. They weren’t happy there so they agreed to come with me.
The very first Sunday they came turned out to be something I can only describe as providence. My dad ran into men he had gone to high school with, and my mom immediately connected with their wives. In one morning, they’d found a new church family.
It mattered more than I can fully describe. Since the fall out with Dale, my parents hadn’t had close friends beyond John and Barb. That loneliness lingered, even when they didn’t speak of it. Watching them laugh with old classmates, seeing them welcomed so quickly, brought me a deep sense of relief. For the first time in a long while, I saw genuine joy on their faces.
And maybe best of all—we were going to church together again.
That was how my family and I came to South Ridge Church. Looking back, I can’t help but believe it was a turning point, a quiet piece of divine intervention unfolding in the midst of fall in West Virginia.